


a little of both

by erebones



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Body Image, Body Worship, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Eating, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, baze is thicc, chirrut loves it, temple beebs, young guardians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 04:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10654923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Baze has gotten Beefy as he enters his twentieth year, and he's a little self-conscious about it. Luckily he has Chirrut to set him straight.





	a little of both

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EgregiousDerp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EgregiousDerp/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by [](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/159494120920/saraduvall-baze-has-always-been-a-big-boy-but)[this comic](http://erebones.tumblr.com/post/159494120920/saraduvall-baze-has-always-been-a-big-boy-but) and [this post](https://baze-chirrut.tumblr.com/post/159481659049/jimothyla-baze-is-so-thicc-like-hes-such-a-soft), and also by egregiousderp's excellent headcanon'ing in my sweet blessed tumblr inbox! <3<3 Thank u for your service beeb.
> 
> warnings etc: there is a continuous theme of body image issues in this fic, and some references to coping with that, but no hard and fast allusions to eating disorders or anything like that.

_Thwack._

 

The practice dummy shudders under the force of the blow, and Baze comes at it again, faster this time, pummeling the straw-stuffed canvas with lightning-quick jabs of his fists. Master Irah would be proud, he thinks. He pauses, puffing for air, and wipes sweat from his brow before taking up a ready stance again.

 

“I think it’s dead,” says a familiar voice. Baze shuts his eyes and stands up straight.

 

“Chirrut, go away. I’m practicing.”

 

“I’m not stopping you,” Chirrut replies. He’d somehow managed to sneak into the dojo when Baze was otherwise occupied, and now he’s sitting on the fence at the edge of the ring, swinging his sandaled feet and grinning.

 

“Yes you are. You’re distracting me. And being annoying.” His protests sound lame in his own ears, and he turns his attention to his hands just so he doesn’t have to look at Chirrut anymore. The wrapping is coming a little loose, so he bends to the task of tightening it and tries to pretend Chirrut isn’t there.

 

“A Guardian must be able to withstand all kinds of distractions—”

 

 _Whump_. The dummy quivers and Baze follows up with a kick, hard enough that he can feel the wooden core unyielding beneath the sole of his foot. Shift of weight, twist, _forward_ with his palm foremost, thumb and fingers bent slightly for added force. This style of combat is best practiced with a leather-padded dummy, but he prefers this straw-and-cloth version—he can go hard, as hard as he needs, and doesn’t have to be afraid of breaking anything.

 

“Bazey! Are you listening to me?”

 

“Trying not to,” Baze grunts, circling the dummy before flying at it again. His knuckles are battered and bruised despite the wrapping, despite the straw that pads the dummy’s wooden core, but he’s not done yet. He has to be faster. He has to be _better_. It doesn’t matter that his body has decided that it’s built for strength more than speed—he’s not going to survive his next duan without learning how to be quicker.

 

 _Whills_ , but it’s hot. The dojo is open to the sky, which is why he chose it—the others are all indoors, and favored by the other acolytes for their warmth and protection against the elements. Here, he’s more likely to be left alone. Except by Chirrut, damn him. But he’s comfortable enough with the younger man that he only hesitates a little before stripping off his outer robes and pulling open the collar of his undertunic. Cool air floods in against his chest, soothing, and he brings his hands up for another round.

 

A whistle pierces the air, and he rounds on Chirrut with teeth bared. “ _Îmwe_!”

 

“What?” is the delighted reply. Chirrut’s grinning so wide his gums are showing, hunched forward on the fence rail as he gawks, unashamed. Baze burns with embarrassment. “Just appreciating the view.”

 

Embarrassment turns to something else, something hotter and more humiliated, and Baze fumbles with the fastenings on his tunic. “Shut up,” he snaps shortly. _Not Chirrut, too_.

 

Lately it seems like everyone has something to say about how big Baze has gotten, his shoulders thickening along with his waist as his teenage years come to an end, the width and breadth of his body finally catching up with his gangly height. It doesn’t seem to matter how much he trains, or how little he eats—his body is determined to thwart him. And now Chirrut has joined the fun, two years of friendship be damned.

 

Chirrut’s smile falters, taken aback by Baze’s vehemence. But he doesn’t falter for long. “What?” he shoots back belligerently. “You’re always swimming under twenty layers of robes like you have something to hide. I have to take this rare opportunity to admire you.”

 

Unasked-for, tears prickle at the backs of his eyelids. _Admire? Is that what they’re calling it now?_ But no—he refuses to cry. He grits his teeth, lets rage take the place of shame, and storms across the ring with his fists clenched and his wrapped hair tumbling down around his face like the horns of a charging bull.

 

Chirrut watches him come with apprehension crawling over his face, but he doesn’t flinch away, even when Baze grabs him by the front of his robes and gives him a good shake—not enough to dislodge him from his perch, but enough to let him know he means business.

 

“I said _shut up_ , Îmwe. I don’t care if you’re everyone’s favorite, I’ll kick your ass if you make fun of me again.” Chirrut’s brows knot with righteous fury and his mouth pops open, but Baze shakes him again, harder this time. “ _I mean it_.”

 

“So do I!” he yelps, and he finally wriggles free of Baze’s hold on him, scooting further down out of his reach. “Force, Baze, why would I make _fun_?”

 

He sounds so genuinely dismayed that Baze hesitates, fists still clenched at his sides and heartbeat hammering in his ears. His tunic has come undone again in the scuffle—he can feel the cool air against his body. When Chirrut’s eyes skitter down to look and back up again, the other boy blushes and gnaws on his lower lip in a way that Baze doesn’t understand.

 

“Because everyone does,” he says at last, sullen. He grabs at his collar and holds it closed, staring at the hard-packed sand between his bare feet. It’s the perfect angle to watch Chirrut’s hand sneak into his line of vision and touch the wrappings on his knuckles, very gently. Baze flinches back. “Don’t—”

 

“No, you.” Chirrut grabs his wrist and tugs until he loosens his grip and lets the plackets slump open again. “They’re just jealous, you know?”

 

Baze scoffs, and it hurts worse than any jeer or insult—this _hope_ that kindles deep inside of him at Chirrut’s words, even though he knows it’s all a lie. “You don’t have to pretend to make me feel better,” he chokes, watching as Chirrut unwraps his hand and touches the bruises and scrapes with feather-light fingers. “I know what they say about me.”

 

_He used to be the Masters’ favorite, you know? Too bad…_

 

_Baze the bantha, ha! He’s not so fast in the training ring anymore._

 

_I wonder if they’ll put him in the stables? If he keeps getting fat he’s not going to fit in a room anymore._

 

“Well they’re all stupid,” Chirrut says viciously. “They’re stupid, and small-minded, and you shouldn’t listen to a word they say. They just wish they were half as good as you at anything.”

 

“Now you’re just talking out of your—”

 

“ _Baze_.” Now it’s Chirrut’s turn to give him a little shake, and Baze is so surprised that he looks straight up into his taut, worried face. It’s such an unusual expression on his lighthearted friend that he can’t bring himself to look away. “This isn’t like you.”

 

“ _What_ isn’t like me?”

 

“Caring about what other people think. You _know_ you’re better than they are.”

 

He lifts one shoulder and drops it again, stealing his hand back from Chirrut’s loose grip. “Maybe. Maybe not. I won’t be better if I don’t keep practicing, though.”

 

Chirrut doesn’t understand, he thinks as he turns his back on him and returns to his dummy. Chirrut is everything Baze is not. Friendly, outgoing, with an effervescent personality that makes it hard to stay away. He _shines_ , bright and warm like a sunbeam, and all Baze has ever done is cast shadows.

 

He returns to his training with renewed vigor, waiting for Chirrut to give up and rejoin his gaggle of friends for the rest of their free period. But he won’t leave. At last, winded and soaked with sweat, Baze leaves the dojo and heads for the communal baths, hopefully deserted in the last half-hour before dinner. Chirrut doesn’t follow him, thank the Force. Baze doesn’t think he has it in him to make him leave.

 

But the next day, during free period, Chirrut is there again, sitting on the fence and swinging his feet in time to Baze’s strikes on the dummy. He’s brought a book with him and is pretending to read it, badly. Whenever Baze looks his way, eyes skating over Chirrut’s hunched form, he’s always in the act of glancing away.

 

Baze is determined to ignore him, but his mere presence is still distracting. His strikes are a little less precise today, a little less forceful. At the end of it, soaked with sweat until his undertunic is nearly transparent, he shakes out his bandaged hands and trudges to the edge of the dojo. Chirrut buries his nose even further into his book, pretending not to see him—but his cry of indignation when Baze rips it out of his hands is very real.

 

“Hey! Take it easy, that’s on loan, you know!”

 

“On loan, huh? I thought Archivist Yan didn’t allow books outside the library.” His lifts his eyebrows when Chirrut only scowls and kicks his feet harder on the fence. “Well?”

 

“Well, _what_?”

 

“Are you gonna tell me what you’re doing? I know you’re not taking notes on my form—you’re obviously the superior fighter.” The words come out tinged sour with bitterness, like berries plucked too soon from the vine. Chirrut’s brow furrows.

 

“That’s not—no. That’s not true, Baze.”

 

“No? You seem to enjoy flaunting your abilities in front of the other acolytes.” He tosses the book back, knowing Chirrut will catch it, keep it safe, and turns his back.

 

“Baze, wait!” He scrambles off the fence and jogs along beside him as Baze strides for the water pump. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

 

“Then _why_ do you keep bothering me?” He hesitates a moment before he tugs off his tunic, leaving himself stripped to the waist, flushed and sweaty with exercise. He stubbornly doesn’t look down at his own body, at his smooth, doughy chest or the barreled belly that has grown up firm and fleshy around his ribs. Instead he works the pump and shuts his eyes, bending to let the ice-cold water gush over his head and shoulders.

 

Chirrut is still there when the water shuts off, shifting his sandaled feet away from the growing puddle and holding out a towel he’d plucked from the rack. His eyes are carefully averted. Baze isn’t sure whether to feel relief or shame.

 

“Moral support?” Chirrut offers hesitantly.

 

Baze snatches the towel and buries his snort of derision into it. The day Chirrut offers moral _anything_ will be a cold day in hell.

 

“If you want me to leave you alone, I will,” Chirrut says. His voice comes in muffled fits and starts, blotted out as Baze rubs his head briskly with the towel, but it sounds almost… dejected. Baze sighs and drops the towel.

 

“If you swear to me you’re not here to make fun…”

 

“When have I ever made fun of you, Baze Malbus!” Chirrut exclaims, then quails beneath Baze’s unimpressed expression. “Okay, fine. But never… I was never _cruel_. Was I?”

 

Aside from his prodding about how _jealous_ everyone apparently was, Baze supposes that Chirrut’s teasing has always been fairly harmless. But his continued presence here, feet planted firmly in the wet sand, still doesn’t make any sense. “I don’t get it,” he says at last, looping the towel around his neck. The ends hang strategically over his chest and stomach, but he still tightens his core a little, sucking in the pillow of chub that clings stubbornly to his navel. “There has to be a million more interesting things to do than watching me pummel a straw dummy for an hour.”

 

Chirrut licks his lips and shifts his weight, not quite making eye contact. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. So how about this. If you teach me how to box, I’ll help you with your speed. Even trade. What do you say?”

 

It’s not an answer. But Baze has an image in his mind of skinny, whipcord Chirrut Îmwe beating the shit out of someone with brutal, graceless fists, and he bites back laughter. It’s too good to pass up. “All right. Boxing lesson tomorrow, then, this time?”

 

“And speed training after dinner,” Chirrut says, nodding. He sticks out his hand. The book is now tucked safely under his opposite arm, cradled in the swathe of his robes like a newborn babe, and Baze feels a twinge of guilt for his mistreatment of it earlier. And his mistreatment of Chirrut. _Maybe it’s a trick_ , he thinks, as they shake. _But maybe not._

 

//

 

He brings extra bandages to the dojo the next day, but Chirrut has come prepared. His knuckles are already wrapped, and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet in the dirt and bobbing back and forth like an action star in a B-list holo. _Zama-shiwo_ has given him some kind of form, but boxing is a completely different mentality, and so Baze spends the first quarter-hour just showing him how to place his feet, how to angle his body to deliver the most force. His knuckles aren’t quite used to this type of combat, and even with the straw-stuffed dummy his hands are bruised and battered by the end. But he’s grinning, ecstatic with adrenaline, so Baze decides it wasn’t a total loss.

 

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Chirrut asks him later, walking through the narrow halls shoulder-to-shoulder away from the raucous dining hall.

 

“Streets,” Baze says shortly. He muffles a belch into the crook of his elbow. Although Baze tried to eat light—teaching boxing wasn’t the same as _actually_ boxing, and so it stood to reason that he would need less fuel—Chirrut had plied him with hummus and mounds of roasted vegetables, and now he feels like a canvas sack stuffed with rice, seams ready to split. The idea of speed training turns his stomach a little, but fair is fair. He won’t pass his next duan weighed down like this unless he practices.

 

“I forget you weren’t raised by the temple sometimes,” Chirrut laughs, ignorant of Baze’s discomfort. “You’re so pious and perfect!”

 

“Am not.” Baze huffs and hunches his shoulders. _More teasing. Great._

 

“Not pious, or not perfect?”

 

“Not perfect. I’m not sure I’m all that pious, either, but I try.” He isn’t sure why feels so embarrassed to admit it—it’s what they should all be striving for, surely?

 

Chirrut takes his wrist instead of answering, and leads him into a small room that Baze has never been in before. The Temple is full of these places, nooks and crannies and cupboards forgotten by the ages, or stuffed with old bits of furniture and supplies that no one uses anymore. This one is empty, clean-swept, with a few lancet windows letting in the orangey-gold light of evening. When he peers out, he can see how high up they are, well above the dojos so many floors below. His belly swoops and he steps back quickly.

 

“You’re not to tell anyone about this room,” Chirrut says sternly, already unrolling the straw mat he keeps in the corner. Chirrut has never brought him here, or even mentioned it, but it’s clear he’s familiar with the spot. Baze tries not to feel bad about being left out. “As far as anyone knows, the door has been stuck for centuries, and I want it to stay that way.”

 

“Why?” Baze asks. “I mean—I’m not going to tell. Promise. But why do you need a room like this?”

 

Chirrut shrugs. “I like to be alone sometimes. To think, or meditate, or read.” Baze almost laughs at him for the last—Chirrut does well enough in his studies, but he’s never been the sort to overdo it—but then he remembers the book Chirrut had snitched from under Archivist Yan’s nose, and nods. “C’mon then. Let’s get ready.”

 

Baze is prepared to be thrown straight into training, but to his surprise, Chirrut folds his legs under himself and squats on the mat in garland pose, knees fitting in tight beneath his arms without any excess fat to get in the way. When he hesitates, Chirrut pats the empty space on the mat.

 

“Sit. Or stand, or lay, I suppose.”

 

“Aren’t we going to… spar?” Baze offers hesitantly.

 

“Of course! But not right away. _Sit_ , Malbus, you’re making me nervous.” He shuts his eyes and brings his hands together. It’s an odd pose for meditation, but Chirrut has never been particularly fond of following traditions. “Breathing exercises first, like in morning classes. To aid digestion. Then we’ll stretch.” He peeks one dark eye open and winks. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not going to try fighting you when I’m full to bursting with papaya.”

 

Baze snorts, but finds a comfortable lotus pose beside him, quietly relieved. He shuts his eyes. The room is cool, with its thin windows open to the air, but the floor is warm beneath him from the thermal vents that carry heat from the kyber pools far below all through the Temple of the Whills. And Chirrut is warm at his side. They’re not quite touching, but with each deep breath their elbows sometimes brush, and Baze can feel heat radiating off him at this negligible distance. _Focus_ , he tells himself sternly. His stomach feels a little less uncomfortable, now, more satiated. He cycles through the mantras and lets prayer drag him down into stillness.

 

Perhaps half an hour later, Chirrut nudges him, and they move in sync to their warm-up. Baze feels a little less awkward in his skin than before, thanks to meditation—he bends and arcs and stretches comfortably, eyes half-shut in the gloom as he subconsciously follows Chirrut’s lead.

 

Then Chirrut begins opening his robes, and Baze feels every muscle go rigid.

 

“What are you _doing_ ,” he chokes as Chirrut’s outer robes pool on the floor.

 

“Oh, sorry. You’re right, I should take better care of my things. _A guardian of the Whills is attentive to every detail_ ,” he snarks, mimicking Master Kirin’s accent perfectly. He scoops up the heavy dark fabric and hangs it on a hook that juts forlornly from the wall. Underneath he’s wearing the usual acolyte garb: sturdy grey trousers in a loose cut to allow for growth, belted at the waist with a black sash, and a fine grey undertunic, nearly transparent with age, its collar and underarms stained a little darker than the rest. He tugs it out of his trousers without batting an eye and hangs it over his robes, then lines his shoes up neatly against the wall.

 

For a single, heart-stopping moment, Baze fears he’s going to take his trousers off, too. But he leaves them as is, only stretching down to roll the hems up, exposing slender, fine-boned ankles and pretty feet—pretty enough to be a woman’s, despite their size.

 

“Well?” he says, popping up again when he’s done. His face a little bit pink from bending over, all the blood gone to his head. Baze feels an answering blush in his cheeks for an entirely different reason. “Your turn.”

 

For a handful of seconds, Baze debates refusing. He doesn’t _have_ to do this. He can fight just as well with robes as without. But the thought of wussing out now, when Chirrut has been nothing but kind and complimentary— _even if it is a sham_ , his brain whispers—sticks in his craw like a peach pit, so he sets his jaw and starts undressing.

 

He’s wearing much the same thing that Chirrut is, just in a slightly larger size. There isn’t a second hook, so he folds his robes and sets them aside, then places his undertunic on top of that. His is a pale cream color, denoting him as having passed his fifth duan, and just as worn and stained as Chirrut’s; for all the care they take with their clothes, they are only given one set each time they advance, and the life of an acolyte is not an easy one.

 

At the end of it, he’s left standing in his trousers, dyed a pale ochre and belted with a navy sash, his hair tied back in a little tail at the back of his head. After passing the third duan, he was given special dispensation to let it grow again, after the fashion of his clan—he had more than proven his piety by then. It still feels too short, and it curls wildly in every direction, particularly after bathing, but it’s better than the cold fuzz of a fresh shave. He faces Chirrut and stands tall, clasping his hands in front of himself nervously, like a criminal awaiting trial. But Chirrut, aside from a faint pink wash to his cheeks, makes no mention of Baze’s overt self-consciousness, just faces him in return and tucks his fist into his palm to bow.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Ready.”

 

“Begin.”

 

Chirrut is a flash of lightning in the dark, quicksilver, like the fish darting in their kyber pools far below their feet. Baze drags his mind away from his self-consciousness and into the fight. He manages to sidestep the first blow, and the second, but then Chirrut lands a few hits—nothing painful, but hard enough that Baze feels the sting on his skin like a Master’s reprimand. Baze redoubles his efforts. _Faster. You have to be faster._

 

By the end of their sparring session, he’s managed to land four or five hits on Chirrut for Chirrut’s fifty. Or so it feels. His body is a mass of bruises, and he’s completely winded, but he still feels good—heart racing, skin tingling and alive. He stretches his arms over his head and laughs.

 

“I’m never passing sixth like this. And you were going _easy_ on me.”

 

“Easy?” Chirrut echoes, eyebrows climbing like caterpillars up toward his hairline. He’s breathing hard, too, leaning over to brace his hands on his thighs, and it makes Baze feel just a little better about himself. “Fuck, Malbus. I was giving you _everything_. You’re faster than you think you are.”

 

“You shouldn’t swear,” Baze mumbles, startled by how easily the word had fallen out of Chirrut’s red and reckless mouth.

 

“Why? There’s no one here to smack my wrist and tell me to meditate on my sins.” He grins like he’s daring Baze to do just that, then laughs when Baze swipes at him, catching him around the neck in a loose chokehold. “Baze! Let go!” he shrieks, wriggling like a fish, but he’s cackling with laughter and not _really_ trying all that hard to escape, so Baze just holds on. He feels less boney, close up—less like the weapon he is when he spars, and more like a man. His skin is hot and slippery with sweat, and Baze can feel the softness of unused muscles and a slight layer of fat over his bones. He gets an arm around Baze’s waist, finally, but Baze is unmoved.

 

“Ask me nicely,” he says, when Chirrut finally collapses against him in defeat. His cheek is pressed right up against Baze’s belly, and he can feel the sharp points of his smile as he pants and giggles breathlessly.

 

“No.” He slumps his weight against him more heavily, but Baze’s feet are sturdy on the floor. Chirrut sighs wistfully. “I’m tired. Carry me to bed.”

 

Baze rolls his eyes. “You’re like a child,” he says, and lets go.

 

Chirrut goes sprawling with a yelp of surprise and pain. But he rolls onto his back before Baze can feel bad and peels his teeth back in a smirk. “What? Too tired to carry little old me down a few flights of stairs?”

 

“You’re like a sack of potatoes,” Baze grunts, nudging him with his foot. He doesn’t seem to be ashamed his provocative position: arms cast wide, knees bent, looking up from the floor with heavy-lidded eyes. “Heavier than you look.”

 

Chirrut runs his tongue over his teeth and Baze looks away. He feels uncomfortable in his own skin, but for once not because he’s self-conscious over his looks—instead he feels hot and tense, prickly, like there’s too much of him inside, crawling to get out. He settles his shoulders and turns away to pick up his robes. He doesn’t know why he’s blushing.

 

“ _Bazey_ ,” Chirrut whines. “Pleeeeease? Lift me into your big strong arms?”

 

“Shut up,” Baze mumbles.

 

“I mean it!” He hears Chirrut scrambling to his feet, and then sees him out of the corner of his eye, wringing his hands instead of fetching his own clothing. “I _like_ how strong you are.”

 

“Strong I don’t mind. It’s just.” He tugs his undertunic over his head and his next words are muffled in the fabric, sticky with shame, “I could do without the _big._ ”

 

When he gets his tunic on properly, Chirrut is still staring at him. He’s pink-cheeked again, but his eyebrows are all wrinkly and sad, and Baze wishes he’d kept his mouth shut.

 

“Forget it,” he mumbles, reaching for his robes.

 

Then, quite suddenly, there’s a pair of slender arms wrapping around his waist from behind. Chirrut presses his cheek to the center of his back, right between his shoulder blades, and whispers fiercely, “I like that part, too.”

 

In the next instant Baze is released, and Chirrut flees the room in a swirl of grey and black, bare feet slapping against the stone floor all the way down the hall until he’s out of earshot. Baze is left behind, staring blankly at the wall with his heart slamming against his ribcage. Chirrut’s sandals sit forlornly against the wall. After a minute, Baze scoops them up and leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.

 

//

 

The next day, Chirrut is back in the dojo, beaming and bright-eyed like nothing strange had happened. He thanks Baze for returning his sandals—which he’d done by sliding them under his door, like a coward—and then promptly strips to his skin for boxing practice. It’s a bit chilly for such an endeavor, but they’ll warm up quickly, so Baze takes off his robes and preemptively untwists the first few laces on his undertunic. He keeps a sharp eye on Chirrut as he does, and is interested to note that the younger man’s face blooms bright red in spite of his unconcerned expression.

 

“Right,” he says inanely, for lack of anything else to say. “Let’s get started, then.”

 

He pays closer attention this time as he adjusts Chirrut’s stance and directs his blows on the dummy with light, careful touches. A hand to his shoulder, a tap to his waist. Chirrut’s blush deepens, and he bites his lower lip, brow furrowed with determination and nostrils flaring as he huffs for breath. A little bit breathless himself, for other reasons, Baze gets in close behind him and places careful fingers right against Chirrut’s tight belly.

 

“More power from here,” he says right into his ear, and Chirrut jumps a little. “Your swings are a little sloppy.”

 

He can _hear_ Chirrut swallow, and the other boy nods, flexing his abdomen under Baze’s hand. _Thump._ His next blow is tighter, more controlled, and Baze steps away, satisfied. Chirrut lowers his fists.

 

“Well? Keep going.”

 

But Chirrut hesitates. “When can I spar against _you_?”

 

Baze considers his answer carefully, but there’s no gentle way to put it. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

“ _Hurt_ me? We sparred last night! It was fine!”

 

“Because we’re more evenly matched at  _zama-shiwo_. Well. You’re faster, obviously.” He shrugs. “But boxing is different. It’s… brutal. There’s no grace to it, no honor. I really shouldn’t be practicing it at all, but—”

 

Chirrut cocks his head. “But…?”

 

“It… helps,” Baze says lamely. He deliberately doesn’t think about how he must look, standing here with his tunic half-open to expose his softness, his size. He wasn’t built for monkhood, really, but he can’t imagine himself anywhere else. Nor does he wish to. He’ll just have to make up the difference in other ways.

 

Chirrut eyes him for a long moment, blush faded and eyes dark and flinty. Then he smiles abruptly and puts up his fists. “C’mon. Just one time!”

 

Baze rolls his eyes. He hasn’t wrapped his own hands yet today, but he puts his fists up anyway and slides his feet into position. If he’s honest, years of _zama-shiwo_ training have written themselves into the fabric of his street-fighting days, and so when Chirrut comes for him, teeth bared, he ducks out of the way smoothly like water parting around a stone. And then he retaliates.

 

He pulls his punches, of course. Chirrut is quick on his feet, but this is a different kind of battle, more brute strength and less balance. He has never felt the Force when he boxes. Instead he feels something else: adrenaline, maybe, or just the thrill of the fight, a memory of that gritty, hard-edged, scrappy little boy who used to go up against adults half again his height and weight for the honor of a few credits. He feels it right now, prickling under his skin like sparklers on Candlenights. It seems to catch and flare into something hotter as Chirrut matches him blow for blow—some of them he allows, some of them he genuinely can’t catch, for even if he’s outmatched in weight, Chirrut has the advantage of speed.

 

Then Chirrut slips and goes down in the dirt, and Baze nearly chokes on his worry, dropping his defenses to go to him. In the next instant, Chirrut is on his feet and going low. He charges him, head down, and Baze is thrown onto his back with a muffled curse, all the breath whacked out of him as Chirrut’s surprisingly sturdy weight pins him down. Then he gets an elbow under himself and rolls, and though Chirrut flails and fights, the other boy is soon beneath him, gasping and red-faced, trying to escape his weight and breadth.

 

“Yield,” Baze pants, fumbling to catch Chirrut’s leg before he can knee him in the groin. Chirrut twists in the dirt, head back to expose his throat—a completely stupid move in a real fight, but Baze is just another acolyte, now, and Chirrut is just… _just._

 

He catches a whiff of sweat and sweet almond oil, and his heart stops beating. Chirrut’s neck looks soft and vulnerable at the hollow, even corded with tendon and muscle, and Baze is horrified to feel saliva welling up beneath his tongue. It would be so easy to lean down… to _lick_.

 

“ _No_ ,” Chirrut whispers, and for one terrifying instant Baze thinks he’s spoken out loud. But then Chirrut grins up at him, his mouth a slash of red, chapped lips and crooked white teeth, and says, “I will _not_ yield,” before driving his hand into Baze’s gut and slamming him over onto his back again.

 

Then it’s a free-for-all. They wrestle in the dirt with no care for form or protocol, kicking up dust and grabbing at each other indiscriminately. Baze hears his undertunic tear a little, and then it’s hanging off his shoulder as he grabs Chirrut around the waist and tries to pin him to the ground. Chirrut kicks back, laughing, and somehow slips out of his trousers, leaving Baze with an armful of grey cloth. Naked now except for his smallclothes, a plain linen loincloth that gapes and flaps in the breeze, Chirrut is harder to grab—his skin is slippery with perspiration and grit, and Baze can count his grapples by the marks his hands have left behind.

 

At long last, Baze just _sits_ on him: pins Chirrut’s hands with his own in the dirt and ignores his flailing legs, straddling him at the waist and waiting for him to tire of struggling. Chirrut groans dramatically and goes slack. His chest is all scraped from their scuffling, and Baze can see his clothes strewn about the ring all covered in dust. He sighs.

 

“Happy now, you little monster?”

 

Chirrut sticks his tongue out—he doesn’t seem to have the breath for anything else.

 

“I’ll take that as a no.”

 

“ _Baze_ ,” Chirrut squawks, as Baze lowers a little more weight onto him. His face blooms even redder than exertion can account for, and he gives a fruitless little wriggle, a token attempt at escape. He doesn’t seem to be able to make eye contact—his gaze keeps sliding away, dropping from Baze’s eyes to his chest and then off into the clear, crystalline blue overhead.

 

“Say uncle,” Baze jokes, but it falls flat. The mood has shifted from playful to something else, and awkwardness crawls up his throat as he looks at his hands around Chirrut’s wrists with new eyes. Chirrut’s belly heaves with a short, breathless laugh.

 

“Yield,” he whispers, paper-dry.

 

Baze lets go and scrambles off him, almost relieved. It’s only now that he realizes how warm Chirrut had felt, braced between his thighs, radiating heat like a furnace. He tugs at his torn undertunic and holds out a hand. “Here, let me help.”

 

“You’re not going to pin me again, are you?”

 

“ _No_ , Chirrut!” he exclaims, affronted, and then confusion takes its place when Chirrut laughs and says, “Too bad.”

 

The space that exists between them now seems to have made Chirrut even bolder. He rakes his eyes blatantly over Baze’s half-exposed chest, and takes his time about picking up his clothes—they’re covered in sand, but a few good shakes gets out the worst of it—and then he takes his time about putting them _on_. The pants in particular seem to give him a hard time. Baze watches him fumble for a bit, spellbound and awkwardly dry-mouthed, until Chirrut finally sighs and holds out his sash.

 

“Help me?”

 

“You’re not a child,” Baze chides him, but he takes it anyway, because he can never seem to resist Chirrut’s soulful brown eyes.

 

“Believe me, I’m aware.” He holds up the loose fabric around his waist as Baze comes close, looping the silk around his hips. Chirrut is watching him with heavy-lidded eyes—he can feel it even when he turns his own eyes down, tingling with embarrassment. They were even closer than this a few minutes ago, but this feels more intimate somehow. He tightens the knot of the sash a little bit roughly, trying to shake off the film of tenderness clinging to his skin, but Chirrut just gives a little hitching sound of surprised pleasure and Baze feels his face flood with heat.

 

“I—sorry,” he stammers, still holding the sash in both hands. Every time Chirrut breathes in, his belly inflates, coming dangerously close to the backs of his knuckles, and yet he can’t seem to move away.

 

“You don’t have to be so shy,” Chirrut whispers. It doesn’t sound like a scold, even though it should. “You know what I think about you.”

 

“No I don’t,” Baze says through numb lips. They’ve been out of combat for long enough that his heart rate should be somewhere in the normal range, but it isn’t, not even close. He makes himself let go of the sash, but then his hands remain, hovering around Chirrut’s hips like they’re trying to make up their minds whether to stay or leave. Then Chirrut takes his wrists, very gently, and the decision is made for him.

 

“I mean. I know you don’t realize how handsome you are,” Chirrut says in a throaty voice, _sotto voce_ , “but I’m pretty shameless, so you can’t pretend to be _totally_ oblivious.”

 

Baze has never been called _handsome_ before. Even as a child, when most people are at least a little bit comely, his ears were a little too big and his teeth a little too gapped to be considered good-looking. It kept him off the selling block, at least, when raiders ran his extended family out of the flatlands and into the dubious protection of Jedha’s walled-in streets. But it didn’t keep him out of fights. Didn’t keep him from wearing his blackened eyes and missing teeth like badges of honor. As far as he’s concerned, puberty has only dealt him an even more stinting hand. At least monkhood has never required him to be good-looking.

 

“I just thought… you were teasing me,” he admits at last. The words seem to scrape at his insides on the way out, and he hates himself a little for confessing it.

 

“In it for the long con, am I?” Chirrut’s grip tightens and his leans closer into his space so that Baze is forced to look at him, at his lifted eyebrow that carries the weight of a hundred sleepless nights on its arch like barrels on a camel’s back. “Do you really think so little of me?”

 

Baze grimaces with guilt. He’s been friends with Chirrut for a while now, sure, ever since Chirrut was raised to his _zama-shiwo_ class to accommodate his abilities. A year or so, perhaps. But he still feels like he doesn’t quite know him, doesn’t understand the layers beneath the face he shows the world. Still, he hates that _he_ has made Chirrut look like this, like he’s hell-bent on scraping off his own skin with a pumice stone just to show Baze what lies underneath, so he blurts out, “There’s nothing about me that could possibly be interesting enough for _you_. You’re—you’re _Chirrut_.”

 

“What does that even mean?” Chirrut scoffs.

 

“It means—it means you’re _good_. You’re—smart, and fast, and you make people laugh without even trying. And you’re—well.” Here he stumbles, tongue thick in his mouth, but he makes the valiant effort. “You know. Beautiful.”

 

There’s no way Chirrut _can’t_ know it—he uses that fact to his advantage often enough—but he still grins to hear Baze say it aloud, face turned up and glowing like a flower tipping toward the sun. Then his smile fades a little, and he releases Baze’s hands only so that he can reach up and touch his face very lightly with his fingertips. “You’re too hard on yourself, like always. I don’t care what anyone says, _I_ think you’re the most handsome man on Jedha and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” His dark eyes narrow into threatening slivers. “Including _you_ , Malbus.”

 

“I just handed your ass to you,” Baze reminds him. His voice is steady, by some miracle—every other part of him feels like it’s shaking to bits, the way the mesa sometimes shifts beneath the city’s bones.

 

“Uh-huh. And what about last night?”

 

Baze flushes and drops his chin, which drags Chirrut’s hands to cup his ears. His horrible, too-big ears, but Chirrut only strokes their outer shells and then back, into his hair, feeling through the coarse tangle for his loosened wrappings. “I had you pinned at the end,” he reminds him, and the memory alone is enough to bring heat back into his cheeks.

 

“Only because I let you,” Chirrut says pertly. “Only because I _enjoyed it_.”

 

“ _Chirrut_.”

 

“What? Am I embarrassing you? Look at that blush! Malbus, you’re even prettier when you’re all flustered.”

 

Baze growls and pulls away, but Chirrut follows, stepping easily into his space like they’re performing some kind of slow, one-sided dance. He tugs gently on the ripped seam of Baze’s tunic and smooths the fabric flat, letting his palm linger on his chest. Baze shuts his eyes. _This is a dream. You aren’t this person—this isn’t meant for you—_

 

“Îmwe! Malbus! Whills save me, look at the pair of you, absolutely _filthy_ —”

 

Chirrut springs back so quickly it’s almost comical. Baze is left stranded, like a fish washed up on the beach far out of reach of the tide—a part of him, deep inside, gasps and gags for breath even as he slots his hands together and bows low, smooth on the surface as an unrippled pond.

 

“Master Irah, my apologies,” he says smoothly, while Chirrut is still stuttering and trying to cover his bare chest with his arms. “The boxing was my idea—I am the one at fault, not Chirrut.”

 

Chirrut yelps with indignation, but Master Irah cuts him off with a sweep of their many-fingered hand. “I highly doubt that is the full truth, Baze, but I don’t have time to prevaricate. Chirrut, report to the laundry _immediately_. If you are not sparkling by dinnertime you’ll have double dish duty for the next two months.” They pause, and when no response is forthcoming, they clap their hands together loud enough that Baze winces and has to resist the urge to put his hands over his ears. “Double time, Îmwe!”

 

Chirrut goes. If he passes one last imploring look over his shoulder, Baze pretends not to see it. Instead he straightens from his bow and casts his eyes down, ready to leave the ring and make his own ablutions before dinner. But a guttural throat-clearing stops him.

 

“Baze.” Their voice is soft and rasping with pity. “Please clean yourself up and report to the Abbyx to explain why you were teaching a younger acolyte _streetfighting_.”

 

Baze bows again, and stays bent over until Master Irah’s feathered tail has whisked out of sight. Then he gathers himself, and follows.

 

//

 

He would have skipped dinner, but the Abbyx expressly ordered him to pick up leftovers from the kitchens—so to the kitchens he goes, still burning at the nape of his neck with humiliation. Not inflicted by the Abbyx, of course, no. That type of punishment was not their style. But the long, thoughtful process of questioning had needled into all his darkest, most secret places, and it left him feeling exposed and horrible in the aftermath, flayed open like cattle at the butcher’s block.

 

He isn’t hungry in the least, but he feels compelled to seek sustenance all the same, and that is somehow worse than going hungry. _We are worried for you_ , the Abbyx’s voice murmurs in his mind. It is a memory, he thinks. He’s fairly sure. _Baze Malbus. You are the most promising young Guardian we have raised in many years. You must shake this burden you carry—it will only lead you further from the Force we strive to know._

 

In the kitchens, he is given cured meat and a helping of fruit, and made to sit down in a corner out of the way of the after-dinner clean up while he eats. It isn’t as dreadful as he’d feared. The salt is good on his tongue, reminds him of the taste of his own sweat and the hard slam of his fists into the practice dummy.

 

_Guardians of the Whills devote their bodies to the will of the Force, young Malbus. We do not stoop to lower, baser ways of being. We believe that you understand this, and that you will not continue to pursue this path in the future._

 

It saddens him a little to know that he will obey their request. Their _order_. But Baze is nothing if not pious. The Temple saved him from his old life, and it’s ungrateful to try and cling to it. He was never _happy_ then, not really—taking just as many losses as wins, battling in the street like a common thug. He _was_ a common thug. It’s only the rose-tinted glasses of the passing of time that has made him forget it.

 

He has a new life now. He has _zama-shiwo_ , and meditation, and morning and evening prayers. He has an education. He has a little class of young initiates all his own to train in the ways of the Whills. And he has friends. Not many, not like Chirrut—his brain stutters on the name, stalls, and rolls on again just a little rustier than before. Not many, but enough. He is content. All his needs are met, and if he suffers from a touch of self-consciousness about his changing body, well, such weaknesses are expected. As he gains strength and wisdom, they will fade.

 

He feels better after eating and thinking, letting the aches and pains in his spirit mellow into something more manageable. Meditation, perhaps, would ease him even further. He has no obligations until evening prayer, so he wends his way through the halls and lets his feet lead him up, higher and higher, until he comes to the wedged-shut door at the end of a deserted hallway, and remembers where he is.

 

It’s as good a place as any to commune with the Force, he decides after a moment. At least no one will bother him. He gets his shoulder up against the weak point and pushes inward with a scrape of wood on stone. And stops cold.

 

In the center of the room is a padded dummy. _His_ dummy, the one he uses down in the open-air dojo when no one else is around to see the brunt of his frustrations emerge in violence. The room is deserted otherwise, but it’s obvious who is responsible. Baze bites his lip and hovers indecisively on the ancient threshold. Just at the sight of the dummy, all his earlier convictions have washed away, and he feels his fists clench in preparation for a punch. _No one would know_ , he thinks. He takes a step further into the room. _No one would see._

 

It’s late enough that the room is quickly growing dark, but someone has put a lantern in the corner of the room. Baze lights it and circles the dummy, feeling a pang in his chest. It’s been his fast friend these many years, sometimes his _only_ friend—especially at the beginning, when he was too coarse and rough-edged to endear himself to any of his peers. He _should_ give it up. But he doesn’t want to.

 

Someone clears their throat behind him, and he whirls—but it’s only Chirrut, wearing his off-day robes and scrubbed so clean that his skin is faintly pink and glowing. His short, dark hair sticks up in every direction and he worries his bottom lip with his teeth.

 

“Do you like it?”

 

“This was _you_?” He doesn’t mean to sound so surprised—of course it was Chirrut. It’s _always_ Chirrut.

 

“Who else would it be?” Chirrut demands. He shuts the door firmly behind him and sheds his outer robe, a dull brownish-grey that has seen better days. He has no tunic underneath, just simple black pants and a cream-colored sash from his second duan. You’re supposed to return your year’s garments to the clothier each time you advance, but clearly Chirrut, being the magpie that he is, had not participated in that particular tradition. “Master Irah said you couldn’t box anymore, so I took the dummy and brought it up here. No one will miss it,” he adds defensively. “It’s one of the older ones, and it’s a little too tall for the initiates anyway. It’s why you used that one, isn’t it?”

 

Baze nods slowly. “You must have been watching me for a long time to know that.”

 

“Not a _long_ time,” Chirrut demurs, with the sort of side-shifting eyes that Baze doesn’t totally trust. “I’m just observant. It’s been pummeled well within an inch of its life, anyway. The only reason it hasn’t been thrown out yet is because—” And there he stops, flustered. Baze raises an eyebrow.

 

“Well, O Observant One?”

 

“You put it in the very back when you’re done,” Chirrut mumbles. “So it gets passed over.” He huffs and stomps his foot in frustration. “I swear, I _haven’t_ been stalking you. It’s just…”

 

“Just what?” Baze moves away from him while he waits for a response, feeling the dummy’s balance. In the dojo, the hard-packed earth is set with clay pillions for the dummies to sit on, but here the stone floor is worn and smooth, and the dummy sways too easily at his touch. “We’ll have to screw this in place somehow. I can get some tools tomorrow.”

 

Chirrut inhales. “We’re keeping it, then?”

 

“Why’d you bring it here, if you thought we wouldn’t? That _I_ wouldn’t?”

 

“I don’t know. I guess I hoped you would like it.” Chirrut hesitates. “Did the Abbyx…”

 

“I’ve been forbidden from practicing _streetfighting_. And from teaching it,” he adds, when Chirrut’s breast swells with eagerness, and it deflates again in a rush. “They’re right—it’s not becoming of a guardian.”

 

Chirrut thinks about this. “But you’re going to do it anyway.” He gives a brief, wild laugh. “Baze Malbus, the most pious of us all, disobeying a direct order from the Abbyx! Whills above and below, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

 

“Maybe your bad habits are catching,” Baze says drolly. He thumps the dummy once more and steps away, calculating the best place to screw it into the floor. If they affixed it on the other side of the room, well away from the door, that would leave enough space for sparring and freehand work as well as boxing practice. “And anyway, who says it’s streetfighting? It’s a common enough technique, yes, but that’s not what it’s _called_.”

 

“Streetfighting isn’t boxing,” Chirrut says slowly, “but boxing is sometimes streetfighting?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

Chirrut peals with laughter. “Excellent! Does that mean you’ll keep teaching me? Can we do it right now?”

 

“Certainly not. The dummy isn’t secure enough, for one. And we don’t have any padding on the floor. Besides which, you already had your lesson for the day.” His fingers find the collar of his robes, and he hears Chirrut’s sharp inhale as he starts to undress.

 

“What—what are you doing?”

 

“Fair’s fair, remember? You owe me speed training.” He hangs his robes and tunic on the dummy and turns around, tightening the sash at his thick waist. Chirrut is staring at him, aghast—not at his eyes, mind, but at his middle. Cautiously, Baze allows himself to not feel shame. “Are you backing out of our deal?”

 

Chirrut licks his lips. Shakes his head. When his hands move to the fastenings on his own poor-fitting robes, they miss the mark and fumble a few times before he gathers the wherewithal to focus on the task. Baze shifts his weight back onto his heel and breathes.

 

Their sparring feels different today. More relaxed, even as it fills with a new kind of tension, of awareness. Baze can feel the ache of Chirrut’s presence in the back of his teeth, can feel the speed of his blows before they connect. It doesn’t help him dodge his strikes, but it helps him take them, absorbing the brunt of impact and standing firm rather than caving before the storm. Chirrut, perhaps feeling his resolve, adjusts his technique and becomes more careful, trying to slip under his guard and stay there. Baze accepts him, lets him close, and then uses his heavy, stodgy strength to his advantage until Chirrut finally yields.

 

“Enough,” he says, and throws himself onto his knees. It should be a submissive pose, but he tips his chin back to stare Baze in the face, and that directness is anything but meek. “I cede the match, Guardian.”

 

Baze shivers a little at the honorific. “I’m not a Guardian yet.”

 

“You will be,” Chirrut says firmly. “I know it.”

 

“My sixth duan—”

 

“You have nothing to fear. Perhaps you’re not as quick as you could be, but your stamina makes up for it. You could bear a mountain’s weight without complaint, I think.” He isn’t looking away from him—isn’t bowing his head. His gaze is bold and dark and direct, chest still heaving for breath, longing written plainly on his brow and the gaping plump of his lips. Baze doesn’t know what to do.

 

“I don’t—” is as far as he gets before the touch of Chirrut’s hand on his sash dries his throat to dust. He stares down at him, aghast. Chirrut rubs the smooth fabric with his fingers and stares back, slender shoulders stark and silhouetted against the bare stone floor. He looks creamy and soft and Baze longs to touch him, but he doesn’t dare for fear of shattering the illusion.

 

“I wish I could show you,” Chirrut murmurs, “how lovely you are. How strong. How brave.” He finds the knot that Baze has tied each morning, every day the same way, and slips his thumb into the folds just a little, just enough to test its give.

 

“What are you doing,” Baze whispers. He can hardly draw breath—every inch of skin feels tight and warm and overexposed, but not in a bad way. Not like it had felt when he’d knelt before the Abbyx and listened to their admonition. Even more alarming, he can feel himself growing thick in his underclothes, his cock perking at the attention and the nearness of Chirrut’s rosy lips. He has a wild urge to grab Chirrut’s chin and either shove him away or draw him closer, and to avoid doing either, he clenches his hands into twin fists hard enough that his nails bite into his palms.

 

“Please, can I?” Chirrut says, each word softer than the next. “I want to. I want it so badly.”

 

 _What do you want?_ Baze’s head screams, but he thinks if he tried to speak now, it would only be gibberish. Instead, carried by the boldness of his sparring achievement and the dark sinks of Chirrut’s eyes, he nods.

 

It’s all he can manage, but it’s enough. Chirrut’s lids fall to half mast and he smiles, just the tiniest points of his teeth showing as he leans forward and presses his lips to Baze’s stomach.

 

For a moment he wants to flinch back, away—he’s spent long hours trying to hide this part of himself, shield it under layers of robes and the way he carries his weight—but Chirrut moves slow and patient, kissing along the hem of his pants, nuzzling him and sighing with delight. And after the initial awkwardness, it feels amazing, like being treasured, _worshipped_. Heat crawls up his face and down his chest, but Baze holds still and tries not to breathe. He doesn’t want Chirrut to ever stop.

 

“Mmh.” Chirrut exhales and rests his forehead there against his hip, hands rubbing the sturdy set of his thighs. Baze can’t look at him, is too overwhelmed, but he feels the warm waft of gentle laughter and the meaningful squeeze of his hands as Chirrut breathes, “You liked that, huh?”

 

Baze shudders all over, and it’s as good as a shout of affirmation. Chirrut grins—all delight, no malice—and he gives a little tug on the sash. The knot gives, and Baze grabs instinctively for his pants. “Chirrut… wait.”

 

To his credit, Chirrut sits back on his heels, teeth worrying away at his lower lip as his brow folds in on itself. “Did you not… I thought…?” He’s talking about Baze’s embarrassing, evident fullness making itself known among the folds of cloth. But though Baze blushes, he sees that he’s not alone—if it weren’t the pulse point jumping in Chirrut’s neck, the lump in his own trousers is plain as day. Chirrut drops a hand to his own thigh and rubs distractedly, pulling the fabric taut over himself. Baze shuts his eyes.

 

“You really… want this?” he whispers. The last traces of uncertainty refuse to let him go, stinging at him, guilt and ridicule prickling in the back of his throat.

 

“For the longest time,” Chirrut replies. He catches Baze’s hand in his. “If you want to wait—or stop—or never speak of this again, I. Well, I’ll be rather sad about it, but I’d understand.” He shrugs his lean shoulders and slaps a brazen mask over his self-doubt. Baze knows that gesture far too intimately to call it anything else.

 

“Chirrut,” he says slowly. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

 

“Well I should _hope_ so!” Chirrut exclaims. “I wouldn’t steal a practice dummy for just anyone, you know.”

 

“You said it wouldn’t be missed!”

 

“It won’t! But I still _stole_ it. And here _you_ are, teaching me boxing. Or, you will. Eventually. Tomorrow?” He beams a hopeful grin and barrels on, “I mean, not right this very second, obviously. Although I derive a similar level of enjoyment from this as from being pinned under your weight in the dojo.” His voice goes all throaty and dark, and it should be ridiculous—should _sound_ ridiculous, but it doesn’t. Baze swallows back the thickness in his throat and gives in to temptation, cupping Chirrut’s chin in one hand. Chirrut’s breath catches and his eyes slam shut immediately.

 

“I’m not… I don’t know _how_.”

 

“Oh, that part’s easy.” Chirrut leans into his hand, reaches back to cup behind his thighs. His touch burns even through the thick, coarse cloth of his trousers, and Baze can’t help following the gentle pressure, stepping forward until Chirrut’s face is buried in his stomach and his own hands are flighty in Chirrut’s hair. “Just… _breathe…_ ”

 

Baze chokes and jerks forward at the hot breath on his cock, the jut of Chirrut’s stubborn chin riding the crease of his thigh. When his sash comes loose, he doesn’t complain—the fabric pools around his ankles and Chirrut _moans_ , fingers gripping tight to his fleshy thighs as he rubs his cheek against his erection.

 

His smalls have never felt so tight before, so flimsy. He makes a broken sound in his throat and curves forward, into the blazing contact of Chirrut’s jaw. Clever fingers creep up and peel back the fine linen, pulling down to expose more skin. Baze is too fogged with desire to care. He watches, breathless, hardly daring to believe it as Chirrut opens his mouth and drags those parted lips against his length. His next exhale is hot and bare against him, and Baze is primed like the barrel of a blaster, ready to go off at the slightest touch of a finger.

 

“Beautiful,” Chirrut sighs, ignoring his blushes and bluster. He kisses the dewy head and pulls insistently at his smallclothes until all of Baze is bared to his eyes, his mouth. And he makes good use of it. Chirrut has always had a quick and clever tongue, but Baze had never before allowed himself to think of it in _this_ context—a tool for pleasure instead of argument.

 

Baze drags in a ragged breath. “Should we really… be doing this here?”

 

His words falter as Chirrut laps at him, at the sensitive apex that Baze has often rubbed in the last few seconds of self-pleasure. Baze had never thought of himself as a sexual person, but in the dead of night, when all the other acolytes are sound asleep, he had been known to… indulge, sometimes. Quick, awkward, face buried in his pillow to hide the slightest breath of sound as he works himself raw beneath the blankets. This—Chirrut on his knees, face flushed and openly adoring—is not what he is accustomed to.

 

“We won’t get caught,” Chirrut says, sitting back on his heels a bit to smack his lips. They’re shiny and swollen already, and Baze feels something inside him go tight and desperate. “Or did you want something a little more romantic?”

 

Baze stiffens, expecting to be mocked at the mere suggestion, but Chirrut scrambles to his feet and whisks Baze’s discarded robes off the dummy. He spreads them out on the floor fastidiously, then layers his own on top and stands beside the makeshift pallet with arms akimbo, grinning.

 

“How’s that?”

 

He looks ridiculous—flushed, tousled, and disturbingly beautiful, even with the hard-on making an obscene tent in his pants—and Baze adores him. He drags his smalls down his thighs the rest of the way and kicks them off, gives a little self-conscious shrug. “Might as well do it right,” he says, but Chirrut isn’t listening to him. All his focus is trained _down_ , down his chest and stomach to the juncture of his thighs. Baze fights the urge to cover himself with his hands and comes forward.

 

“How do you—how should I…?”

 

Chirrut coughs and reaches for him. “Come. Like this, I want you—like this.”

 

Chirrut lays down first and so Baze follows suit—their robes, even layered, aren’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but he’s slept in worse places, and at least they keep in the warmth of the stone floor well enough—but Chirrut still isn’t satisfied. He wriggles out of the rest of his clothes and drags Baze bodily over him, clasping Baze’s arm around himself like a strange sort of bandolier until he’s content. But Baze isn’t quite sure.

 

“I’m not crushing you, am I?” he says anxiously, even as Chirrut plies his chin and cheek with kisses. Chirrut growls, annoyed, and grabs at his hair, tumbling out of its careful topknot into loops and whorls that hang down to kiss Chirrut’s face.

 

“I _want_ you to crush me, silly,” he complains. He doesn’t sound at all as if he’s lying pressed skin to skin with another man. Then Baze shift his leg a little higher between Chirrut’s thighs, and his next breath is high and strangled in his throat. “I want—Baze, _please_ , surely I’ve made myself _more_ than plain, I—I like it when you are,” he gulps, “like this. Just like this.”

 

Baze didn’t think it was possible to blush anymore, but he feels his face go warmer, and his cock twitches against Chirrut’s thigh. Like uneti leaves twisting and fluttering to the ground in Jedha’s autumn chill, Chirrut’s lashes fall to sweep against his cheeks, and he sighs, low, long, heartfelt. Grips the back of his neck, and drags him down to press their foreheads together as Baze shifts again, again—their pricks slide and bump together, uncoordinated, but each clumsy stroke feels good enough to make his toes curl.

 

“Chirrut,” he gasps, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s too low, too gritty, like the voice of an older, wiser man. A man who, perhaps, isn’t so afraid of his body, of the fires that burn inside its depths. He fists the robes beneath Chirrut’s head and leans down, gasping a garbled prayer against his throat.

 

“Mmh.” Chirrut throws his head back and clutches his hair again, shameless. When Baze lifts his head, his lips are peeled away from his teeth in a smile; it’s such a raw, naked expression that Baze almost feels as if he’s intruding on an intensely private moment, one that only Chirrut is a part of. But Chirrut clings to him, still, and when he feels the hesitation coiling in Baze’s body he cranes his head up and kisses him square on the lips.

 

It’s only then that he realizes they’ve never kissed before. How ridiculous, that they should be entwined like this, grinding together in a slapdash mimicry of sex, before they ever touched mouths. But the taste of Chirrut floods his tongue before he can think too much about it, and then every sense is taken over by Chirrut’s heat and magnetism.

 

“Fuck,” Chirrut blurts against his teeth, and Baze doesn’t even think to reprimand him. He grabs for Chirrut’s thigh and hikes it higher, higher, until his heel settles hard at the small of his back. “ _Baze._ ”

 

“Yes,” Baze whispers, an answer to a question that Chirrut never asked. “Yes, yes, _yes_.”

 

Chirrut giggles. “It’s good, isn’t it?” he says into Baze’s hair. His heel slips against smooth, sweaty skin, and he catches it again beneath the plush weight of Baze’s backside.

 

“Yeah.” Baze huffs, rubs his open mouth against Chirrut’s neck. It’s becoming a bit of an addiction—but he’s careful not to bite, to leave no marks. The last thing either of them needs after today’s fiasco is more attention.

 

“Baze,” Chirrut grunts after another minute or two of sweaty, delightful rutting, “want you to—put it inside me. _Please_.”

 

Shock paralyzes him for an instant, then floods him with heat, and he buries a little cry in Chirrut’s collarbones. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I’ve never—and we need, um, _things_ , don’t we? For that?”

 

Chirrut groans—not a sexy sort of groan, but a petulant, childish one that sets Baze to laughing uncontrollably. “Stop!” he whines. “Don’t laugh at me! I _want it_ , I’ve—I mean, I’ve touched myself there before, I can…”

 

“Chirrut.” Baze stops him short, and stop his hips, too, slowing their clumsy gyrations until they’re just laying there, pressed together, their body heat sealed with sweat and the red, scattered marks of grasping hands. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. But I.” His voice locks up in his throat, but Chirrut doesn’t tease him—the irritable pout slides off his lips, replaced with soft concern, and it makes it easier to go on. “I’m happy to follow you anywhere, but I. I’d like to know more, first, before we…”

 

He shouldn’t be so tongue-tied anymore, not when his cock and Chirrut’s have been touching— _very much_ touching—for the past few minutes, but he can’t help it. Chirrut wipes hair from his sweaty face and nods. “All right. But I still, um. I still want you to…”

 

And now it’s _his_ turn to be speechless. A little gratified, Baze lifts some of his weight away to allow him room to maneuver. Chirrut scoots lower on his back and lifts his knees up and back to make more space for Baze between his legs. Baze can’t help it—his gaze travels south, down Chirrut’s rosy chest and flat stomach, past his cock to what lays below, dark and secret. Chirrut makes an encouraging little noise and Baze reaches out, hesitant. Chirrut’s thigh is smooth and almost hairless to the touch, growing downy near the inner crease of his groin. Baze pets him there, then lower, _in_ , knuckles brushing his balls as his fingertips stroke the smooth skin behind. Chirrut’s toes curl and he whines, head rolling back and forth against the floor.

 

“You’re not close enough.” His voice is scraped raw, ruining the attempt at petulance. And then he coos when Baze touches him harder, leans in closer—he’s _looming_ , but Chirrut seems to enjoy it. His breathing picks up speed and he anchors his heels to Baze’s flanks, opening himself up to his worrying hand. Then he finds tight, furled skin and Chirrut’s whole body goes rigid.

 

“Chirrut…?”

 

“Yes. Like this,” Chirrut whispers. He reaches up, fingers digging into his shoulders, and Baze follows the pressure of his grip until their bodies are tight together again, hard against soft, bony against firm, sweat against sweat. His cock fits in the space behind Chirrut’s balls, not driving inward but _up_ , and Baze can feel Chirrut’s prick against his own belly. He shudders, rocks forward and back a few times. It’s a different sensation, more texture, the wide spread of his legs allowing him closer than before. Maybe it’s only a shadow of the real thing, but it’s still good—it’s still really _fucking_ good.

 

“You,” Chirrut gasps, and beams, “ _you_ said it, now. Shall I smack your wrist?”

 

He’d said it out loud, Baze realizes. Caught up, he bares his teeth and answers, “If you do, I’ll smack back.”

 

Laughter rings out, bright and brief, and then Chirrut moans at the slick, heavy grind of Baze’s body over his. His knees hurt a little, even with the slight padding of their robes, but he feels a familiar tightness in his balls and under his skin that tells him he’s getting close. And Chirrut is, too—his smile is ragged and thinning at the edges into a helpless _O_ shape, and each frantic grind pushes soft cries from his throat that he’d been able to stifle earlier. Baze grits his teeth and moans into his chest, chasing the edge.

 

Chirrut, for all his tells, still comes without warning—suddenly his legs are all a-tremble, and Baze feels his belly grow slick with spend that’s not his own, hot and slippery. Chirrut bites into his lower lip but still whines high in the back of his throat, face all scrunched and unselfconscious. Baze wants to kiss him stupid. He means to, even leans down to catch a clumsy blur of lips and teeth, but then the head of his cock catches on the rim of Chirrut’s asshole and the suddenness of it, the _heat_ , is overwhelming. He comes hard, mouth open, soundless and quaking like the bones of Jedha when the mesa shifts and groans on its old tectonic shelf. His lungs squeeze and squeeze.

 

And then it’s over. Baze drags in breaths like a man dying of thirst in an oasis, gulping, a little dizzy from too little oxygen—or maybe too much. Beneath him, Chirrut is murmuring something. A soothing, unintelligible mantra that moves in time with his hands, soft and comforting as they stroke his back and flanks. Baze feels the give of his own soft flesh beneath Chirrut’s touch, and for the first time he is not ashamed of having excess.

 

“Okay?” Baze slurs—it’s all he can manage. Chirrut nods against him and grunts a complaint when he tries to move away.

 

“Stop that.”

 

“But I… you’re all…” He shifts his still-hard prick, glowing with a confusing mixture of mortification and pride. Even just butting the head of his cock up against Chirrut’s entrance was enough to smear his come inside, and all up the crease in a sticky mess. He wants to wipe him clean and rub it in all at the same time. “I’m sorry.”

 

Chirrut groans, exhausted and exasperated. “Why, you silly man?” He mumbles something unintelligible and slings an arm around Baze shoulders to anchor him close. “Mmgh. That was even better than I imagined it would be.”

 

Baze is never going to be a normal color again, he’s sure of it. “You… imagined this?”

 

“‘F course! Didn’t you?” Chirrut’s eyes slide open, sly, fond. “Oh, what am I saying. Baze Malbus, the most pious acolyte in the whole Temple—mmf!”

 

Baze stifles him with a hand, but only long enough to lean down to kiss him, instead. Chirrut smirks into it and curls his tongue willingly into Baze’s mouth. “Shut up,” Baze says, punch-drunk and in love. This sends Chirrut into giggles again, and Baze takes the opportunity to roll onto his side. Like a limpet, Chirrut clings and comes with, sliding their legs together—Baze’s cock slips free and he shivers a little.

 

“Could you go again?” Chirrut murmurs.

 

Baze opens his mouth to deny it, and pauses. “I… maybe? But not here,” he adds hastily. Even the warmth soaking into them from the floor is no longer enough—he can feel the chill of the night air wafting through the lancet windows, and the sweat cooling on their bodies is giving him goosebumps. “I don’t fancy adding to the bruises I’ll have tomorrow from this floor.”

 

“You’re such an old man,” Chirrut scolds, but his face is creased with laughter. Before Baze can conjure any kind of bemused reply, he’s rolled free of his arms and is hopping around collecting his discarded clothes—smalls, transparent enough that the spend on his inner thighs seeps straight through—and then pants and sash and undertunic, all in a fumbled rush that Baze can barely follow. He watches, though, greedy for the swiftly-disappearing glimpses of Chirrut’s honey-warm skin, and he’s slow to move when Chirrut prods him for the return of his outer robes.

 

“Come, my soft-eyed lovely,” Chirrut purrs, rubbing his hands proprietarily over the wetness sticking to Baze’s chest and belly. It’s an absurd, ridiculous pet name, syrup-sweet, but Baze loves it anyway. “The faster you dress, the faster you can lay me on your very own bed and eat me ’til I cry.”

 

“ _Chirrut_.” He isn’t sure whether he’s embarrassed or turned on—perhaps a little of both. It will always be a little of both with Chirrut, he thinks. “I—okay. Just.” He looks down at himself, messy with another’s spend, and gives a mental shrug. He’s bathed twice today already—once in the morning, as per his usual, and then again after scrapping with Chirrut in the dojo, before presenting himself to the Abbyx. His ears burn to think of that delectable few minutes in the sun, in that blessed, blissful stretch without shame. Chirrut has given him permission to embrace his body, embrace its strengths, and maybe it’s wrong of him to disobey the Abbyx in this way, but Chirrut has been his absolution, and he’s too weak a man to give him up.

 

Chirrut, sensing the shifting tides of his introspection, doesn’t speak as he helps him dress. It’s a perfect reversal of his _un_ dressing, gentle hands on his body, rewrapping him in the robes of his service to the Whills. It’s the first time he’s felt enjoyment in the clasp of the sash around his waist, the slight pinch of too-small robes around his thick shoulders. He is loose, and warm, and the smell of Chirrut in his nose is the best kind of incense his lungs have ever tasted.

 

“We’ve missed evening prayers,” he murmurs as they slip out into the hall together, hand in hand. There are no lights this high in the Temple—this part is too old and too fragile to withstand the efforts of electrical wiring, and there isn’t enough traffic here to warrant torches—and through the arched windows, NaJedha’s rings spool multicolored bands against the walls and floors, bathing their forms in ethereal light. Chirrut tips his face up, and golden flecks glint behind his pitch-black irises.

 

“No we didn’t.” He licks his lips, smiles, tentative for the first time since he dropped to his knees. “ _I_ was praying very hard tonight.”

 

 _Don’t blaspheme_ rises automatically to his lips, but the words die before he can give them breath. It’s true, he realizes. It was a little more crude, perhaps—the Abbyx would surely call it _base_ and _beneath you_. But if Baze has ever felt the Force move through him, surely it moved tonight.

 

“So was I,” he whispers back. He finds Chirrut’s pointed chin in the dark and guides him up for a kiss.

 


End file.
